


The Sweet and the Bitter

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon References, Angst, Gen, coffee can't fix everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scent was unmistakable. Written for JWP #27.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweet and the Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: References to well-known canon events. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> JWP #27: Dish of the Day. Curried Fowl? Oysters? Focus on food in some way in your work.

The scent was unmistakable. Sweet, fragrant, the very embodiment of early summer captured and preserved in glass.  
  
“Mrs Hudson has outdone herself as usual,” Holmes remarked, continuing to slather his toast with strawberry jam. “The eggs are particularly nice, which leads me to believe she has finally trained her cook to pay more attention to her stove and less to the delivery-boy.”  
  
I nodded numbly and finished taking my seat. The breakfast table was indeed a treat: a covered dish of eggs, a plate of kippers and another of bacon, a shining coffee-pot and a cozy-covered teapot, a rack of toast, the butter-dish, and a gleaming jar of jam.  
  
And despite my hearty appetite mere moments ago, the thought of breakfast was suddenly dust and ashes in my mouth.  
  
Holmes could not know how strawberry jaw was inextricably entwined with my memories of Meiringen, and that horrible first morning after his death at the Falls. Or at what I had thought was his death, for he was not dead, no, he was here sitting across from me, my fellow-lodger once again here in Baker Street, and all was nearly as it had been. But seeing him here, now, could not wipe away what I felt then. And the scent of strawberries – any strawberries, not just the little Alpine strawberries that had been so carefully picked and preserved and presented at our hotel as a local delicacy – remained anathema to me.  
  
“Watson?” Holmes swallowed his bite of toast and stared at me. “My dear fellow, are you feeling well? You’re looking a trifle pale this morning.”  
  
How to explain? I could not, not to him, not yet – perhaps not ever. “Perhaps I am just in need of coffee,” I replied, and forced myself to pour out a cup.  
  
The smell helped disguise that of the jam, but my stomach still rebelled at any idea of food. I took a sip of the steaming beverage, hoping the bitter liquid would help chase away equally unpalatable memories.


End file.
